Sophia sat
at the dining table
at her parents' home,
her mother
was in the kitchen
finishing off the meals;
her father sat
at the table
eyeing her,
his eyes focusing
on her movements.

You have ended
your relationship
with the boy Benedict?
He said in Polish.

She looked at him,
preparing herself
to lie convincingly.

Yes, we have ended it,
she murmured in Polish.

He sat back
in his chair,
his eyes searching
her features,
how she sat,
trying to discern
any falsehood
in her words.

I told him
the other day
at work,
she said.

He sat there,
she thought,
like a Mafia boss,
short and stocky,
his eyes firm and dark.

What did he say?
The father said.

He was upset
about it,
but understood,
she said,
trying to avoid his eyes,
looking at the white
table cloth,
the flowered pattern
around the edge
and in the center.

I hope you are not
lying to me,
the father said,
his eyes wanting
to gaze into her eyes,
but she looked away.

Yes,
she said,
I tell you the truth,
pushing from her mind
how she and Benedict
kissed and petted heavy
on the late Mr Cutt's bed
that afternoon,
she listening out
in case someone
came along
and found them.

The mother came in
with the plates
for them both,
laden with meat
and vegetables,
then she went back
to get her own.

The father gazed at Sophia,
wanting to gaze
into her mind,
but seeing only
her features
and her blank stare.

Her mother returned
and sat down,
and Sophia imagined
Benedict was there.